


White horse

by ARMEN15



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, A song - Fandom, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Badass!Arya, F/M, Grief/Mourning, House Lannister, House Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Marriage Proposal, Older Man/Younger Woman, Parenthood, Post-Season/Series 08 AU, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Protective Jaime Lannister, Rare Pairings, daenery's fury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:09:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29653887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ARMEN15/pseuds/ARMEN15
Summary: The requested continuation of my other works "A rich slaab of beef"https://archiveofourown.org/works/24699901/chapters/68766105and  "I wanted to be a knight"https://archiveofourown.org/works/28069068/chapters/68766267
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Arya Stark
Comments: 8
Kudos: 47





	White horse

**Author's Note:**

> I want to thanks a lot my precious beta.  
> Thanks a lot for following me in this adventure, I do hope you liked how I painted the characters.

Death, dust and desolation are all around her, the city of ruins is silent and wasted, the thick layers of ash covering everything.

There are no laments from wounded people; the dragon has been merciful, killing everyone with fire, a fast and clean death for men, women and children, burned on the streets or inside their houses, running for the gates, the wells, the cellars, trying to escape from the madness of the silver haired queen.

It is a strange sensation to be the only one alive, walking between corpses, gifts to the many faced God, an impossible number to count in a single day: her Masters would be amazed by the magnificent power of the dragon.

Her target is the Red keep. Arya is sure the Queen would never have left, Cersei has too much pride and arrogance to escape like a scared mouse.

The horse appears out of nowhere, from one of the stone stables or from outside the walls, and it stands still and powerful in the middle of the street, looking at Arya, calling to her. 

It's a stallion, she notices, its white fur covered in grey dust, its eyes red for the smoke of the fires burning everywhere.

Seeing the white mane, Arya remembers the white knights and their horses on the stairs of the palace a lifetime ago.

She walks between ruins, holding the reins, and the animal follows quietly, well-trained. Where buildings are made of stone – thin protection against the fire, but still a protection - the dead have fatal wounds lying under piles of debris.

Arya approaches the Red Keep. Along the courts and vaults there are no traces of life, until she hears a cough, a sound so absurd in the stillness of the dead town.

It comes from the stairs leading below, to hell, to the kingdom of death: the prisons, the dark walls under the impressive structure.

Arya ties the horse to a pole and slowly walks down, Needle in one hand, a torch in the other. She is silent, listening to sounds and breaths of danger; she hears a male voice speaking incoherent words.

There is more debris the further she descends down the steps, and water drops trickle from somewhere on the ceiling to the stones below.

Not enough water to control the fires.

Hearing a faint whisper, she knows she is close. In the half-darkness Arya waves the torch and sees a figure crouched on the floor; it is huge, because it is not a single person but two, a body lying in the arms of a man who lifts his head on hearing incoming steps

The torch lights a golden hand. Her knight’s. The Kingslayer appears like a skeleton, a lifeless shell of who he had been during the battle for the living.

One look and it is recognition for him, a supreme irony to meet where the town is collapsing and

fire is destroying all the Lannisters’ power. Jaime cradles the body in his arms and Arya understands.

Jaime lies his twin on the ground, closing her eyes with his good hand, caressing her bloody face and crossing her hands on her chest.

With a grimace of pain he puts his weight on his uninjured side and tries to stand up. Arya stares at him; he makes no attempt to escape or start a fight.

Her enemy, the Queen, is dead in the middle of bricks and dust, yet she doesn’t feel the kind of satisfaction she has imagined. She had travelled south, drawn to her list, uncertain if she could complete it after her promises to Jaime.

There is blood throbbing at her temples, a realisation it is all over now; she’s empty, there’s no one else to kill.

So long and intense has been her quest for vengeance that she has forgotten how life is without it; Arya Stark needs to find another purpose for herself.

“How did it happen?”

“We were running, the walls crumbled. I grabbed her but she slipped, a few seconds and … it was too late …..” he bows his head, crying in silence.

“We have to leave. Daenerys’ soldiers are coming. She’s dead, you are alive.”

Is Jaime going to follow Cersei in death? His hollow eyes speak of an immense grief.

Jaime moves to the left and clumsily bends to retrieve a bag, holding it close to his body.

It is something precious, gold maybe. Damned Lannister gold, Arya thinks, until she hears a wail, piercing and fragile that echoes inside the half collapsed building.

The bag moves, something pink comes out, Jamie touches it and a small hand clumsily grabs one of his fingers; Jaime rocks the babe back and forth.

Arya is shocked. At Winterfell Jamie confessed to her that the Queen was expecting and that the possibility of saving his unborn child was one of the reasons he went north. 

She had believed Cersei able of telling whatever lie to keep Jaime at her side, even faking a pregnancy; but for once, the Queen had told the truth. 

Jaime approaches Arya who lifts her head to see the baby better: a tuft of thin golden hair and a glimpse of green eyes, like the parents; it’s another lion cub. 

“How old?”

“Barely a month. He was born a little early, but he’s growing strong.”

“A boy?”

Jaime nods. “Gurien.” His fourth bastard, not a Baratheon, never a Lannister, just a Hill – and only then if someone nurturing revenge against Cersei didn’t murder father and son before the babe could realise what a name is.

“I’d kill myself if not for him, now that Cersei...”

“You have to live for your child. Come on. Let’s go.”

“Where? The city is in ruins and Daenerys wants my head. I have no sword, I only escaped with my brother’s help.”

“The mad queen has broken the alliance. Jon shows only pain on his face. Sansa was right, he shouldn’t have bent the knee.”

Jaime shakes his head, it is useless discussing decisions already made. Arya realises time is running out fast; the walls are crumbling too close, the vault trembles above her head.

“I have a horse. The babe will be in danger if Daenerys realises who the mother is. I promised you that I would never harm your child.”

Jaime takes a step forward and hisses for the pain; there is blood on his side and leg, an open wound that makes him limp.

He was stabbed, a painful stab, but hopefully not fatal. Arya’s trained eye observes its position: left side, close to the hip, there is a chance he will survive.

“You need a maester,”

“Qyburn is dead. The others ran away.”

“Lean on me and don’t let the babe fall.”

The way he holds his son, as though he were the most precious things on earth, reassures Arya that the knight wants to survive.

Outside, Jaime stares at the horse, magically calm in the confusion surrounding them. Arya takes the reins, asking him to give her the child so he can mount using debris as leverage.

Jaime hesitates, he doesn’t want to abandon his son for a second and the distress is clear on his face.

“I’m not going to ride off with him.”

Jaime obeys, but he is paranoiac and the physical and emotional pain are tearing him apart.

He settles behind Arya on the saddle with a sharp cry, his arms open to receive the infant back, on his face a look of desperation and possessiveness that only a man who has been deprived of his children for all his life and has seen them die can have.

Their journey starts; a cripple, an infant and a young woman who leads the way.

West is their direction, a land less devastated by the war, its people faithful to the Lannisters and surely some of Jaime’s relatives will still be around. Arya grabs a sword from a corpse, its pointy end half molten by the fire, but for now it will suffice to stick into someone dangerous.

There’s confusion on the main road, with carriages full of people escaping, soldiers galloping, barracks where the ill are being tended to. Arya observes with attention, head low, pretending to be a servant boy, wearing a hood to hide her face.

Too many people notice Arya, her fame widespread around the kingdoms, so she turns the horse off the road into a group of trees and changes her face; Jaime suffers too much to notice the wine girl is back.

Jaime’s golden hand remains under the collapsed keep, near the body of a man largely disfigured by stones. Maybe Jaime will be considered dead like Cersei. It was a clever move from Arya to set up his fake demise; Tyrion is the only one that could be able to understand the truth.

Arya wants to ride fast, Jaime is in pain and stubbornly holds his son, until the wound hurts so much that he is forced to pass her the babe and use Arya’s back so as not to fall.

_He’s going away, dreaming, floating, thinking about Cersei, the happy years when Joanna was alive, but Cersei is swimming in the waters under the Rock, away from him and from a bunch of golden children who shout her name._

_He wants to follow her but his feet are glued to the sand, sinking slowly, unable to move, as he shouts her name and watches her disappear under strong waves._

_Eventually freeing his legs, he dives into the water head first, but there is a net, shining and strong, that envelopes him and stills his attempt again._

_A small arm holds his head above the water and forces him to breathe, refusing to let him drown, and he jolts and Arya’s hand shakes him and awakes him to reality._

After three hours they’re up on a small hill, overlooking a river and a village. A group of men are raiding a farm outside the village, and so Arya keeps them hidden between bushes and trees until the ground appears clear.

Later, as they are going down, they hear screams near a pond where a girl is being chased by a tall figure. Arya curses herself, the face is weakening her ability to avoid dangers.

Before Jaime can stop her, Arya ties Gurien’s blanket to the saddle and walks down the slope, bow and arrow at the ready; close combat is not a safe option, she needs a single well placed hit.

As soon the girl hears her aggressor’s last cry and sees him falling to the ground with an arrow in his neck, she runs away and disappears along a narrow path. Arya stills for a while, but no one comes in search of the dead man.

Jaime leads the horse, he is pale, bent over the saddle in agony.

“We must go to the village and ask for help. Your wounds are bleeding, sunset is nearing and Gurien needs food.”

Jaime thanks the Gods that he’s got a ruthless protector in the shape of a petite woman, he wants to survive now that there’s hope.

The maester is young and cannot hide a moment of hesitation when he examines Jaime’s wound. The village inn is along a river, a quiet place now since the crossing had been flooded over. The maester was on his way to the citadel for a new ring on his chain, a journey blocked by the war.

“We cannot stay here. Find a way to clean and stitch it, give him something for the pain.”

Arya’s voice is loud and commanding, back to her true self, so much so that the babe starts crying in her arms.

There’s a little milk of the poppy for Jaime, and the maester forces him to gulp down two cups of wine too.

“The babe is hungry,” the maester declares, looking at Arya’s flat chest.

“We need a wet nurse. We can pay.”

The maester speaks to the innkeeper, who calls a skinny boy, sending him outside to summon someone called Delia, while he cleans a table in the back for the maester and helps Jaime to lie on it.

When the innkeeper hears a female voice, he lifts a brown curtain and disappears, returning after a few minutes with a tall woman, a toddler on her hip.

Her bosom is visibly huge under the dress she wears and she observes Jaime first, red with blood, then Arya holding the babe.

“How old are you? Ten and four?” She asks Arya with a cold sharp voice, but she doesn’t give Arya time to answer.

“Another one. Shame on men who put a child in a girl’s belly who is too young to have milk.” 

She spits toward Jaime, lying on the table while the maester stitches his side and applies a herbal scented ointment over the wound.

“Delia, stop!”

The innkeeper says, taking the infant from her.

“Don’t try to stop me, husband.”

The woman approaches Arya, opening her shirt and offering a saggy breast to the hungry babe.

“It's my seventh and I am not even thirty. Don't do like me, run away.”

Arya stares at Gurien sucking, his little fists hitting the woman's chest; he is starved and she hears Jaime breathing in relief, before Delia turns to stare angrily at him.

“You didn’t feed her enough so she’s got no milk.”

“She's got no milk because she isn’t the mother. My … wife is dead.” It’s the best truth Jaime can offer.

Arya confirms, but Delia doesn’t stop her tirade. 

“Whatever, he will need another wife, want more children. Save yourself, leave now.”

“It is not so easy...”

“No! Are you pregnant already?” Dalia grabs Arya’s arm, who denies forcefully that she is with child, as her mood blood had appeared during her journey south.

“Are you in love with him? Men don’t deserve our tears.”

“I’m not so young. Nine and ten in three months. I’ve …”

“Arya!”

Jaime's voice rises from behind the maester, he has been listening – pain allowing - and feared her reaction when pushed toward a path she despises; they cannot risk being noticed and recognized, a low profile is too important and he’s already made a mistake in slipping out her name.

Jaime doesn’t dare to look at the woman, so strong is her rage, but he needs to explain things; for all his sins, he’s never committed rape toward a woman.

“I have made a promise to her mother to protect her.”

The woman makes the baby burp and wraps him in a warm blanket without adding a word, gesturing to Arya to follow her behind the curtain.

Jaime would have paid his weight in gold to hear the conversation, he tries to sit but the maester pushes him down, explaining for the third time that the wound must be cleaned every day.

The women leave the inn through the back door, stopping in a small orchard where two girls are sowing. Delia points at one of them.

“My oldest told me a boy dressed like you saved a village girl from rape. The boy killed the man with an arrow.”

Arya is caught between the caution needed to avoid suspicions about them - Jamie is a one-handed man easily recognizable as the Kingslayer, while her grey eyes betray her as a northerner - and the need to establish a bond with the woman to save the babe.

“It was me.”

“You’re the young Stark, the one that kil …”

“No! I’m no one here.” Dalia is not afraid of Arya’s angry face at being discovered.

“And he’s the knight without his sword hand?”

Arya nods, resigned, deciding to trust Dalia.

“You’re sincere and I'll be honest. The babe is too young to survive without a mother. You could leave him here, I’ll raise him as one of mine. I don’t care whose family he comes from.”

The idea that Jaime could part from his only remaining child seems absurd, he’d prefer to die than leave his last chance at fatherhood, his last token of Cersei. As twisted and desperate a love as it was, he did love his sister, despite her flaws and her sins.

“I’ll speak with him, but he’ll never abandon the child.”

“He’s stubborn. Both of you. And you care about him and the babe, I won’t reveal your identity, neither will my husband. Let’s ask the midwife’s help. Your companion cannot travel for now.” 

Whatever decision is delayed until the following day and Delia wants Arya to bring the baby to her after dinner and in the middle of the night to feed him.

When Arya returns inside with Gurien, Jaime has been given a small room on the ground floor; the maester puts a bunch of herbs in hot water - for the fever, he tells Arya - while Jaime is resting on the bed, Gurien at his side.

“It will start soon.” the maester warns Arya, recommending for her to make the patient drink a lot.

_Arya sits in front of a steaming bowl full of some meat and vegetables and she understands how hungry she is._

_Eyes closed, she smells the food and is back home, to old Nan and her hot broth when the Stark children were ill, a running nose or a stomach ache, to the warm kitchens where little Arya liked to hide with Nymeria, away from the sight of her mother and septa, free to do as she pleased._

_There is a deep desire to be there again, to talk with her father and ask him many questions for answers he’d be happy to offer her._

It is a sleepless night for Arya, caught between tending to Gurien who wants food and needs frequent changes and Jaime who turns and sweats in bed.

He’s alert, never loosing consciousness, telling Arya he’s survived the loss of a hand and nothing could be worse. She doesn’t reply that internal bleeding can be lethal, remembering the way Jaqen tended to her after the Waif had stabbed her.

“It’s awful.”

He is disgusted by the taste of the herbs, but drinks from the cup like his life depends on it.

And it is true.

She’s glad he can reach the chamber pot by himself to piss, leaning onto their sword, all the fluids washing away the infection.

Near dawn his shivering has reduced and both of them have slept for around two hours.

“Delia offers to be a wet nurse.”

Arya tries to sound casual, speaking while lacing her boots, casting innocent glances at Jaime to see his reaction. She’s due to meet Delia and the midwife with Gurien.

“She’s already nursing him.”

“She’s got seven children, she can manage eight.”

“No!”

Jaime lifts himself from the bed, tries to throw his legs over the rail and bends over for the pain.

Arya goes to him and he grabs her arm with such strength that it leaves marks.

“Gurien is mine! The only…. promise me, Arya! I can’t abandon him.”

“I told her so. But you’re wounded and on the run.”

“I’m much better.”

“Liar.”

“I swear.”

They argue and discuss, Arya leaves and when she returns Jaime is obedient like a well-trained dog and follows the maester’s advice in order to be able to ride again as soon as possible.

The rhythmical movement of the horse lulls the babe with the repetition of the ups and downs of the large animal’s back; Jaime rides in a sort of trance.

The ache in his heart is painful, but his side is healing faster than either he or Arya imagined, his body having won over the fever and so they left the inn within two days.

Riding is the time of the day when he thinks about Cersei. Her death is still unreal and sometimes he feels the touch of a ghost and it is her.

He misses her and he is ashamed to be alive when his other half is dead, the stones could have been merciful and killed him too, then he looks at Gurien and smiles sadly; Cersei deserved to be with their child, it is a cruel twist of fate, she forbid Jaime to be close to the others and now he’s the only parent Gurien has. Arya has caught his watery eyes holding Gurien and has forced him to admit Cersei was too selfish in refusing Jaime a fatherly relationship with her golden children in the past.

Jaime spills tears for the adorable girl who wanted to learn how to use a sword, for the beautiful young woman who he declared his love to and for the stunning queen who saw her world crumble.

His stump hurts like the first weeks after the wound, because Cersei was a part of him, he returned for her, risking death and treason. Jaime hopes with all his heart that Tyrion is safe, his little brother is clever, he’s got the ability to escape the queen’s fury.

Gurien sleeps, exhausted, in a sling against his father’s chest; they cannot sleep in the open with an infant and are forced to find accommodation in inns, barns, taverns, wherever they can find milk and food; the midwife has gifted them a bunch of strange cones made of sheep bowels with a tiny hole at the bottom to feed Gurien, who hungrily sucks at them and the milk inside. 

Arya changes face when they are dealing with people, knowing it won’t last for long, as Jaqen taught her so; the more distance she covers the less the risk of being recognized and the less the use of faces is needed.

Jaime has noticed, but he doesn’t ask for explanations, hands full of Gurien and mind dwelling on the mess his life has become, family lost, Tyrion’s fate uncertain.

_Three young lions like to play in the gardens of the Rock. The little girl dares her twin to touch the caged lions or dive from the cliffs and he complies, everything she asks him is an order a young knight must perform, for his queen of love and beauty._

_The young boy dreams about knights and tourneys and how he will put a crown of flowers on his sister’s head, to declare to the world that she is perfection among women._

_A little hand tugs at his belt and his little brother wants attention, too, because Jaime is the only one who loves a deformed creature that for everyone else has killed his perfect mother._

With clouds heavy on the horizon, they stop in an anonymous village; Arya asks for warm milk and bread and Jaime pays for a room: he’ll eat later, they take shifts in tending to Gurien who has woken up and whines.

Fed, Gurien is put in a crib and Jaime stands beside it for a long time thinking about his fears and doubts: surrender to his enemies, beg the queen for his son’s life, entrust him to Arya, continue to escape, hide at the Rock. Each idea has pros and cons but with Gurien in the game every choice has to be more than careful.

And Arya, he’s to consider her into the picture.

Her power, her look of steel, her courage travelling with a wanted man and an infant.

Arya arrives with a meagre dinner for them, soup and bread, and warm milk for the night feeding. Jaime rests on a chair, caressing the babe’s cheeks.

“The silver queen is dead. I heard two travellers.”

She has decided not to ask questions, who’s got the throne now, is the North safe?

Jaime is not surprised, Daenerys was her father’s daughter, he has betrayed the queen and her revenge is lost without her.

Between them they have many enemies still aiming at their heads.

“The good news is Tyrion is alive and well, although he’s travelling as it seems.”

Jaime’s relief is visible, the brotherly bond the Lannisters share makes Arya long for her own remaining siblings; their decision to go to Casterly Rock is the best they could have, now a Lord Lannister is established.

“I wish my brother could see him. Gurien’s got his curls. Tyrion loved Tommen and Myrcella a lot.”

“Gurien’s got your eyes, too. And your nose, probably. He's a true Lannister.” 

“He's just another bastard. The fourth time I cannot give my child my name.”

“Why not? Who could contest him to be your true born son from your wife?”

“And where can I find a wife to conform so? One conveniently dead? How suspicious. And the record from the sept?”

He stands and paces the room, like the lion he is.

“Half the kingdoms know I’ve pined after my sister all my life, where could I have found a woman to wed and bed and get with child meanwhile?”

She stares at him with a new light in her eyes. After the long battle she had already heard lords and bannermen talking about marriages and alliances for Sansa and herself and she doesn’t want to be forced to choose a man after saving the living.

Staying in the North would mean becoming a pawn in another game, women are too often considered as potential mothers only; she’s planned to be away for a while and return only when her independence would be guaranteed.

And Arya understands she’s getting attracted to little Gurien, not enough to have a babe like him, at least not for now, but she likes the way the infant makes small noises when she holds him and sings him some old lullabies. And it would be a great solution to deal with her lords: as the mother of a child from one of their historic opponents, she’d no longer be a valuable maiden they could lust after.

She’d prove her duty to continue the Stark line on her terms, not with a man focused to breed with her multiple times against her desires. And it could be worse: what if her wounds have made her barren? Even more the shame at the thought of being repudiated due to her possible infertility.

There would be no more pressures for a marriage, no more proposals from men interested in her name and wealth only. Sansa can wed Tyrion - under the crypts he had open his heart to the only woman he ever respected – and produce an heir and a spare with red or golden hair.

Arya’d have a perfect little family, wrapped up like a splendid gift and be free to live her life. There are worse husbands than her crippled knight, she spars with him in bed, she beats him in training and he’s aware of her wild side: Jaime is the unexpected solution to some of her fears.

“I would do it.” She answers with a serious face.

Jaime’s hand stills over Gurien’s head. His face shows incredulity at the prospect of Arya married to him. He must have misunderstood her.

“Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

It’s something he had never envisioned in his life - how many times had he repeated to his father the same words, no land, no wife, no children. Her face is grave, no teasing, no mocking, she’s made an official proposal.

“It’d be a benefit for all of us. You’d have Gurien legitimized, I’d have a child without birthing him and Gurien would have the North’s protection. After a year or two no one will notice how old he is compared to the date of our marriage.”

“I made a vow.”

“Where’s your white cloak now? Under the bricks with wasted promises?”

Once the initial shock fades, he realises she’s right, that her family has won the war, that his name is cursed because of Cersei, that the Rock is Tyrion’s, and that if protection for Gurien comes with the name Stark, so be it. It’s the best offer he can get.

She sees emotions playing on his face until he nods.

“I accept.”

“Good. I’ve seen a small sept in the village. Tomorrow we’ll go there.”

“It’s not a Northern godswood.”

“I don’t care, we’ll use what we can get.”

“You will marry me with your true face, won’t you?”

“Of course, this is not a joke.”

“And I suppose Kingsguards are no more.”

“Probably. Easier for you to change life.”

_Walder Frey’s face is full of wrinkles, his eyes are hidden under fat eyebrows, his lips are thin and pale, but his hands drag Arya to the decaying sept, home of black birds and dried ivy, where a man stands in front of the Septon. She wears a wedding dress and a crown of purple flowers, fighting against Walder but never enough to set herself free from the painful grasp. Walder’s son comes to her and grabs her hips, forcing a hand between her legs, laughing with his father, who declares that she is ripe and ready to breed. Arya screams at the top of her lungs, but all around there are Freys, the faces she saw die, one by one and they want revenge, her demise, her defeat, until from up above a white bird of prey flies with a broken wing, struggling to stay up until it throws itself thrashing onto Walder’s face, his eyes, his nose, his lips get red with blood and Arya twists her arm and is safe, following the white bird up to a river that she alone can cross._

They are married fast and easy. The Septon is a fat man, probably worshipping the wine from the inn more than the Gods, but he doesn’t ask too many questions, doesn’t chastise them for having already created an offspring and he writes the names, witnesses the traditional wows and gives a brief blessing.

For the records, Jaime and Arya Stark are the names they choose. Gurien will be a Stark, too. Safety for his son is a small price to pay, it doesn’t matter if of four children none are recognized as a Lannister.

It’s important the fourth is his.

When they return to the rented room after the ceremony, Gurien is restless, refusing to sleep.

“He senses the festive mood.”

Jaime declares, still in the grey cloak they found at the market, too short for his frame while Arya’s reaches her feet; there are no wolves or lions on the simple fabric.

Arya had decided to play the wedding as normal as possible, folks liked to enter the sept to spot the brides, so she had bought grey for both, and Jaime cloaked her in her colours, while Gurien was wrapped in a new grey blanket.

He has married in his forties to a girl less than half his age, to a trained killing machine called the Light of dawn, her name spoken in reverence and admiration from travellers, old maids, battered soldiers returning home. She has proposed to him because she’s sure he’ll never hurt or control or force himself on her.

He feels a hint of pride in being the chosen one, crippled and no more a beautiful golden knight, yet still she trusts him.

Arya takes Gurien in her arms and spins around with him, he squeals happily and Jaime wants to join them, to be a family, two parents with their child. There’s a strange and useful similarity in the faces of Arya and Gurien; their hair and eye colours don’t match, but the oval shape is the same. People will think their first born has taken from his father.

Arya brings the babe to him.

“Put him to bed while I retrieve our food.”

She’s back in the quiet room, sunset light filtering through the open window, Jaime is near the crib, breathing because Gurien breathes.

For all her evil actions, Cersei made beautiful children, in her wrong stubborn way of wanting pure lions only.

Jaime joins her when Arya puts the tray of stew and carrots on the table, also balancing two cups and a carafe of wine. It is a simple meal for a peasants’ wedding feast, not a banquet for rich and noble houses joined; she has never cared, he has learned not to care anymore.

They eat in silence while the room gets darker. Jaime looks at the sleeping infant.

“Do I have to feed him?”

“When he wakes up. The fire in the kitchen is on to warm his milk.”

“Thank you, Arya, he’d be dead without you.”

She’s the protector, the caretaker, the one who organizes their journey so he can concentrate only on his son. It is true, he and Gurien alone on the road would have died days ago.

He’s got skills, years as a fighting knight, but Gurien is so tiny and fragile compared to him or Arya.

Their marriage will be childless, unless Arya changes her mind. It is her request and Jaime is not angry, he accepts her right to choose; he has never fathered random bastards like Robert did, because all he wanted were Cersei’s. There will be time for Arya to rethink about it. In this case, if the Gods allow her to have a true heir, if the scars he’s spotted on her belly aren’t too deep, Jaime would love a child born from her like he loves Gurien.

But now Jaime hungers for intimacy with his wife, they had been together twice, enjoying the act, and this is their wedding night, his body is healing well and he can play his part on the marriage bed. He’s determined to make them work, on Arya’s terms, they aren’t interested in taking lovers, considering their respective pasts; an unspoken promise of faithfulness sparks in Jaime a powerful desire to bed and please his bride. 

She’s been the one to take the initiative both times, so he stands and offers his good arm; Arya tucks hers under it, a little curious and Jaime leads her to the window. The night isn’t black, a full moon shines.

“We can make a toast to our wedding.” He proposes with a warm smile; his skin is more golden under the candles’ light.

“Is there any wine left?”

“Enough.”

Jaime pours two cups of Arbor gold from the carafe.

“To Lady Stark.” He whispers when the metal clinks.

“To my Lord husband.”

They drink, eyeing each other. Arya feels a shift in atmosphere, Jaime puts down his wine, before taking her hand.

If she retracts he will stop his attempts, but Arya intertwines their fingers and Jaime pulls a little to reduce the distance between them.

She seems smaller, shorter, in the scarce light. He bends his head to find her face, her lips are soft and they part for him.

Their bodies are attracted to each other and soon they mould together in a familiar yet new way, Jaime knows where to place his hand – just above her right hip, barely feeling the last rib because Arya is shorter than _she_ was - and Arya goes on tiptoes to reach the spot under his ear with her lips that makes Jaime shiver.

There is something firm and warm when Arya press herself against him, friction with layers of clothes is not like bare skin contact. Jaime lifts her tunic and unlaces her breeches, pulling down Arya’s smallclothes as well.

She is trapped at her knees by the garments so Jaime lifts her with no effort, keeping her weight on his uninjured side and lays her on the table.

Her legs dangle from the edge, she tries to reach him again but Jaime is faster in pushing her down with his forearm and opening her knees as far as the garments allow.

His head is on her in a heartbeat and at the first contact of two different kinds of lips Arya gasps and her head thuds on the wooden surface.

Jaime laughs against her skin, remembering how she liked his attentions down there at the Frey’s.

“What’s funny, Lannister?”

“You can use my new name, wife.”

It is Arya’s turn to laugh.

“When my family discover the lion has turned into a wolf…”

Her voice trails off because Jaime works his lips and tongue on her cunt, methodically, he wants her to come undone, for him, to forget everything else outside their room and be his for this night, only his.

The vows in front of the fat Septon, Jaime meant them, not only for the sake of his child, but because she is his redemption and honour, she is the promise he made to lady Catelyn to protect her daughters. Not considering how she is protecting him. He’s found the right sister, Arya is the night to Sansa’s day, and enveloped by the night he can forget a lot of things.

Sure the dream to have Cersei as his wife was an illusion he clang to for all his life.

Looking back, their only chance to escape their destiny had been when Tommen died, but too soon Cersei was all Queen and revenge so Jaime had resigned himself another time.

He stops to breathe and teases her again, it is a game he likes to play.

“So what will Queen Sansa say about me?”

“She’ll be angry and write … ooh! Jaime!”

He’s got the right spot, the good tempo and his wife shudders and tenses.

“Do continue, Lady Stark, your Queen…”

Arya is soon active again, sits up and grabs Jaime’s neck and forces his head up to kiss him deep, scratching his scalp, sharing the same air.

The table creaks with Jaime’s weight, pressed between her legs, her hands under his tunic to unlace his breeches. Jaime casts a look to the crib, making sure their lovemaking’s sounds don’t disturb Gurien.

“Bed.”

Arya give orders, she wants her husband, he’s awakened the wine girl, the last face she wore, the last memories she holds.

She needs to keep and improve her faceless ability to protect her new pack until they find a place to settle for a while. The Rock or Winterfell? Her home is a safe harbour, Sansa will have to accept Jaime and Gurien, because she loves Tyrion, an imperfect man, like hers.

Jaime lets her foot touch the floor and she gets rid of all her clothes.

The bed is comfortable, with fresh sheets and a quilt, the warmer nights don’t require furs. They have money to buy decent accommodations, since Arya’s purse descending South with northern soldiers remained full and Jaime’s got his own, full of Lannister gold.

When Arya reaches the bed, Jaime has already undressed himself; the skin around the wound shows traces of red, his chest is pale and he’s lost weight, but his arms and legs are toned and strong.

He will need to train again and soon, Arya cannot be the only fighter in case they are attacked.

Jaime observes his young bride, they have time and he’s curious to admire another woman’s body.

Cersei and Brienne at the baths were all gold, Arya is white, a skin that never saw the sun, pale nipples that stand proud, a mole on her left chest, a net of scars on her belly and hips, some thin, some not.

From her past training, she declares, like it is a normal thing, like his own scars are from his battles and tournaments. 

They lie in bed for the first time as husband and wife, ready to find and offer pleasure. She has little to compare him to and Jaime only had Cersei, with stolen hours and uncomfortable locations and the constant fear of being discovered, until she became Queen. How happy he was when she let him stay in her bed until morning, not caring if the maids spotted him or found traces of him in her bed.

And he’d even prefer that Robert was still alive if it meant Myrcella and Tommen were safe. But then he’d be deprived of Gurien, truly his, and of Arya; Jaime is becoming addicted to Arya and the idea of having a rightful family appeals to him.

Being able to sleep and cuddle and caress her is a bonus indeed.

Arya is building her own experience, pleasure can have various forms, when he is inside her or down on her or maybe when she rides him, like he has suggested for their second coupling of the night.

Gurien is fed and changed and Arya has washed herself using the bowl; by the amount of seed running down her legs, she must be careful with her moon tea.

Jaime does want her, not as a thanking for saving Gurien, nor as an available cunt, a piece of flesh; bonding with him and Gurien is more than she had imagined for their marriage.

Jaime stands by the bed, there is reflection of the flames in his hair, making them appear golden and long again, like she first saw him in Winterfell. How far they have travelled to be there.

Gurien lets out a cry, Jaime picks him up and walks around the room, caressing his back.

Arya notices that he squeezes his eyes and tears escape.

“You can mourn her, you know. There is no need to hide it from me.”

“Yes, I know, but I want us to work, so you will be proud of me.”

“It’s so new for both of us, I’ve never been betrothed. Some noble girls I heard had more than one proposal. I did mine. I choose you.”

“We have laid together, the first time against each other. The second with each other.”

Their first night had been a show of power, the second a cry of life.

“Tonight you’re here for me.”

Arya declares, understanding the dept of his commitment; when she returns to the bed he takes her hand and kisses her palm, in reverence, a tender gesture that contrasts with the image of a proud knight.

Arya by impulse places Gurien on the sheets; the infant snuggles against Jaime – the smell he recognizes after all the time spent on horseback - Jaime admires his little boy’s blond hair.

“Thanks, Stark.”

He caresses his son to feel the tiny chest rise and fall under his fingers; the fear of losing him will never completely disappear until Jaime’s last breath. He can’t dwell on the trials life will throw at him, but he does hope that the sins of his birth parents would be spared from Gurien.

“You know, my father once told me I’d marry a man of a noble house, with children of my own and I told him it was not my life. It seems he was right, in the end.”

“You father was an honourable man, much better than me. I am glad to have his daughter at my side.”

Arya turns on her back and stirs, soon they have to continue their journey,

Lannisport is far away and they can only send Tyrion a safe raven from the Rock. The future appears a twisted road, but a road nevertheless, and one that they are ready to travel together.

_The Queen in the North is a light sleeper and her husband tries to be quiet when he works by the fireplace until late at night. He’s received a fresh scroll, and he reads it over and over, still unbelieving of the message written on it._

_A tear runs down his cheek, it’s joy this time, his brother is alive and well, hidden in their ancient family seat._

_He’s buried Cersei and a poor man with a golden hand, not a knight._

_Tyrion Lannister knows he doesn’t deserve such happiness, married to his beloved Queen and relieved to know he’s not the last of his name._

_He will tell Sansa about the new additions to the Stark pack when Arya and Jaime return North, once little Gurien is able to face the journey, with the secret about his true parentage safe._

_For now, Tyrion decides to let them live their lives._

**Author's Note:**

> A comment makes the writer happy, thanks


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